


His and Mine are the Same

by wehangout



Series: Our Souls [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Drugs, M/M, Pining, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 04:51:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3837751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehangout/pseuds/wehangout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And he looks fucking beautiful doing it. He’s like this bright light of happiness and warmth and beauty surrounded by the depressing Chicago south side. He stands out to you in the crowd, his smile is the most magnificent thing you’ve seen, and his entire being seems to fucking call to you … and if this is what having a soul mate feels like, then you could maybe be okay with that.</p>
<p>A companion piece to "Whatever Our Souls are made Of".</p>
            </blockquote>





	His and Mine are the Same

_Everyone knows the lore: when it happens, and sometimes it doesn’t, it happens on the seventeenth anniversary of birth. Sometimes it appears before then, a faint rash or stain that bides its time until said seventeenth birthday, finally clearing some time that day. Some time. Very rarely is it there first thing in the morning, but it’s always visible, bright and shiny, by midnight._

_If it appears at all. Some people don’t get it, some people get three._

_You don’t know how many Ian Gallagher will get, but you know one of them will be yours._

You won’t get any.

This is something that comes to you suddenly, something that you just know, something that occurs to you when you’re fourteen, and you don’t need to take a moment to accept because you’re really fucking okay with it from the get go. You don’t _want_ a soul mate. You don’t want that undying love, head-over-heals bullshit you see on TV. You don’t want to be invested in someone who might not feel the same, who might turn out to be a piece of shit, who might one day leave you.

You don’t even want that intense, overwhelming feeling with someone who does feel the same way. It’s not your thing. It’s not going to happen. And realising that you don’t want a soul mate, knowing you will never have one, is a relief, it’s a wave of pure _thank fucking God_ because you just don’t want to deal with any of the shit that comes with it.

And not just because of your dad. You’ve known since the first time you watched the _Fast and Furious_ movies that you preferred dudes, but the idea of having a male soul mate - and somehow working around that while being Terry’s son - made you sick to your stomach. Literally. Which just caused Terry to yell at you for eating too much fucking popcorn.

But it’s not just him. It’s the whole bullshit idea that the universe decides for you; that you don’t have a say in who you end up with. It’s the idea that you have to end up with someone. Maybe you don’t want a fucking life-long relationship with some fucking fairy.

The night before your seventeenth birthday is just like any other fucking day. Terry’s passed out on the couch, you have no fucking clue where your brothers are, and Mandy’s doing homework. The only difference is that every two or three minutes Mandy will look up from her text books and stare at you.

You fight the scowl you want to throw at her, not wanting to admit you notice her, or that you know why she’s doing it. She wouldn’t do it any other night of the year - hell, she wouldn’t do it any other birthday of any other year. But you turn seventeen tomorrow, and that means something to some people.

Mandy’s so fucking into this soul mate thing. She’s seen how it works, though; she watched the same shit-show that had been _Terry and Maria: Soul Mates_ , so you don’t know why she fucking believes this crap.

You head to bed before she can say anything, not wanting to have the same conversation with her that you’ve had every fucking time she brings up the name thing.

It takes you too fucking long to fall asleep, but once you do, you sleep better than you have in years.

You wake up late, sun streaming in and blinding you immediately. You groan and get out of bed, scratching idly at your chest. Stumbling out of your room, you follow the smell of coffee and pancakes, waking a little more with each step until you’re standing in front of a grinning Mandy.

“Happy birthday!”

You flip her off and drop into one of the chairs at the table. “You made breakfast?”

“Yep! No one else is home, so I figured we could make the most of it, you know?”

She piles pancakes, bacon, and syrup onto your plate, and you grin. “Thanks, Mands.”

“Anytime, shit head.”

She sits opposite you, and you kind of feel like you should say more, but Mandy seems happy to shovel food into her face like it’s no big deal, so you scratch at your chest again and do the same.

The pancakes are burned, and the syrup is old, but the bacon is cooked just right and the coffee is sweet, and all of that combined is perfect. You grin around a mouthful of food.

“You’ll make a good little house-bitch for someone someday, Mandy.”

“Fuck you,” she says, mouth full of even more food, causing little chucks of chewed up pancake to fly at you.

You shield yourself with your arms, then flick away the pieces that landed on your tank top. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“You love me.”

You flip her off again and go back to eating. It’s a good three mouthfuls before you realise Mandy is staring at you, slack-jawed. You chew a little slower, carefully swallow the food in your mouth, then place your fork on your plate.

“What? What is it?”

“You’ve been doing that since you got up,” she whispers.

“Doing what?”

She points at your chest, and you immediately know what she’s talking about. You pause, mid-scratch, and shake your head.

“No. No fucking way.”

“You got it,” she breathes. “I can’t believe you fucking got it.”

“I didn’t!” You shove your chair away and stand. “I fucking didn’t okay? Look.”

You tug your shirt over your head, already knowing Mandy won’t see anything more than whatever marks your nails have left. But you do it anyway, just to prove a point.

“See?”

You look down. Your jaw drops. You look at Mandy in shock. She at least has the decency to pretend she’s not super fucking smug about something she can’t even see. You look back down, and actually take the moment to read the black, fancy-ass letters on your skin.

“Fuck.”

_On the morning of Ian’s seventeenth birthday, you wake up nauseous. Your hands shake, saliva pools in your mouth, and there’s this churning in your stomach that won’t go away. It’s dumb and it’s lame and it’s so fucking terrifying that you just want to go back to sleep. You want to curl up into a ball and sleep or cry or die, because Ian will see your name on his chest today, and then you’ll have to deal with the inevitable._

_The disappointment on his face. The rejection. The pity. The_ sorry, Mickey, I just don’t feel that way about you _. And you don’t want to deal with that - with any of that - because you’re not ready, you’re not able, you’re not fucking okay with the idea of Ian not wanting you back._

_You’ve had over a year to get used to it, but the more time that passes, the more you want him to want you just as much as you’ve come to want him._

 

Ian Gallagher.

_Ian Gallagher._

_Ian fucking Gallagher._

The thing about Ian Gallagher is that he cannot be your soul mate. He just can’t. And not even because Terry will kill you before he lets your soul mate be a guy, but because Gallagher is Mandy’s friend, he’s hot as hell, and he’s even an okay guy. They all seem like they should go in the pro column, but you don’t put them there.

In your life you have the hot guys who you fuck in dark, empty alleys, and you have the okay guys who you get drunk with sometimes and don’t hate hanging out with. You don’t have both. You don’t do relationships. The second an okay guy becomes hot - friendship over. The second a hot guy seems pretty cool - fucking over.

And Mandy … she doesn’t have a lot of friends - you won’t screw something up with one of them if it means hurting her. With your brothers all gone, it’s you and Mandy against the world - the world being Terry Milkovich - and you won’t fuck that up.

So while Mandy stares at you with wide, shining eyes, you pull your shirt down and head for the shower. You know it’s dumb, you know it won’t work, but you try to wash the name away, and the harder you rub at it the more it burns until it’s red and inflamed. You’re pretty sure your soul mate’s name isn’t supposed to do that to you.

So you stay away. If Mandy’s home, you’re not, because if Mandy’s home then there’s every fucking chance that Gallagher’s with her. You stop stealing from the Kash and Grab - shit, you stop going there full stop. You officially drop out of school, because even the chance of running into Gallagher at school the two or three times a week you go is too much.

The more you stay away from him, the less chance this soul mate bullshit has.

Terry dies a month after your seventeenth birthday, and in some kind of twisted celebration/tribute/fuck-you to the old guy, you go to the closest gay bar, bring a dude home with you, and let him fuck you in Terry’s bed.

Then you kick him out. You throw his jeans at him, tell him it’s time to go, and follow him into the living room in nothing but your boxers.

It’s also how you come out to Mandy.

And then everything just … _changes._

There’s literally nothing you can do about the name on your chest that you never wanted, expected, needed. It’s there, and that’s that. What you can do, though, is get fucking used to it - used to the fact that you have a soul mate, used to the fact that you already know your soul mate, used to the fact that your soul mate is your little sister’s best friend.

He’s there, all the fucking time. And you know he’s an okay guy - Mandy wouldn’t hang out with him all the fucking time if he wasn’t - but that doesn’t mean you want to spend every other fucking day with him … except that you’re starting to maybe want to spend some time with him, and you already know this might be a problem.

Two weeks after summer ends, one week after Terry died, and five weeks after you get your name, you take a good, hard look at Ian Gallagher.

The guy is such a fucking idiot. An idiot surrounded by idiots, all standing in the middle of the road, not wearing nearly enough clothes, as the summer drought ends and the first rain in ten weeks showers down on them.

He stands there with Mandy and his siblings, a bunch of other kids, a couple of other teenagers, even a few old ladies, and he laughs and dances and make a complete fool out of himself.

And he looks fucking beautiful doing it. He’s like this bright light of happiness and warmth and beauty surrounded by the depressing Chicago south side. He stands out to you in the crowd, his smile is the most magnificent thing you’ve seen, and his entire being seems to fucking call to you … and if this is what having a soul mate feels like, then you could maybe be okay with that.

You don’t mean for it to be this way, for his good looks to be what makes you okay with this, but there’s no denying that he’s too fucking hot for his own good, no denying that if he’s the guy you have to fuck for the rest of your life … well, you’re one lucky son of a bitch.

So you begin to make a small effort. He sits there with Mandy, drinking and laughing and looking so stupidly good that you go and sit next to him. His laugh is fucking infectious, and it sends something warm through you, beginning at the mark on your chest and spreading throughout the rest of your body.

And a small effort turns into no effort at all because Ian’s funny and smart and a total dork. He’s too fucking easy on the eyes, and just as easy to get along with, and when Mandy passes out drunk or when she has a date, you’re more than happy to hang out with Ian. Just the two of you.

Gallagher’s both - he’s hot and he’s okay, and you don’t plan on fucking him, or going through with him soul-mate bullshit, but maybe you can make an exception and hang out with a hot guy.

_You leave the house early. You know you’re just putting off the inevitable, but you don’t fucking care. You can’t bring yourself to care, and it’s only because of just how much you do fucking care._

_Nothing good will come out of today, not for you and not for Ian, and a part of you just wants to tell him no, tell him it’s okay, you get it, he doesn’t have to explain. You want to give him the out that he deserves, the out he will never ask for but should absolutely take._

_Ian is good. He’s one of the good people in this shitty world, and you’re …_

_You’re not._

 

It doesn’t take long for things to get harder … pun fucking intended. Even as the weather cools down, Ian still turns up at your house looking like pure fucking sex, and the more he does it - the more he smiles at you, the more he stands too fucking close to you, the more he calls you _Mick_ \- the harder it get to not tell him, to not touch him, to not fucking tackle him to the ground and convince him to fuck you senseless.

It’s fucking _hard,_ and the only way you manage is by jacking off to thoughts of him every day, every night, all the fucking time.

The first time comes out of nowhere. Only weeks into this almost-not-quite friendship with him, you sigh and press your hands to the shower wall, and all you can think about is Gallagher in that sun shower a month back, and how fucking amazing he looked with his hair plastered to his head, droplets of water dripping down his body, normally pale skin pink from the last few weeks of sun …

Your hand is on your cock before you know it, and don’t try to fight it, you don’t do anything but groan way too fucking loudly and keep on going, your cock growing harder and your hand moving faster the more you think about Ian and his skin and mouth and his ass …

After that, it becomes routine.

But so does hanging out with him at work on Wednesday evenings while Mandy serves burgers at a diner a couple of blocks away. So does buying his brand of beer instead of the shit you prefer. So does passing him the joint first instead of Mandy. So does ordering pineapple on half the meat lovers pizza. So does making sure you’ve always got Kraft mac and cheese in the pantry because that’s his favourite thing to eat while drunk or high.

And then there are the things that become habit - the staring, the smiling, the small touches when you’re feeling really fucking brave … or stupid. You’re honestly not sure which.

Ian, though, he just seems to go along with everything. He probably just assumes he was wrong about you, that you’re not the shit-head thug you acted like when Mandy first brought him home, probably thinking that Mandy gets the pizza and mac and cheese, while thinking nothing of the beer and first dibs on all joints.

Because he doesn’t know, and you’re beginning to hate that he doesn’t know.

You’re beginning to hate that you smile whenever he smiles, that the scent of his aftershave when he walks past your makes your head spin, that you fall asleep thinking about him and wake up still thinking about him while too fucking often dreaming about him in between.

You hate, so fucking much, that you actually kind of really like your soul mate.

_You sit in the dugouts for as long as you can, and you don’t fucking care how pathetic it is, how pathetic you are. You knew a long-ass time ago just how fucking lame you are when it comes to Ian Gallagher, and today’s not going to change that. Nothing’s going to change that. You’ve got it bad for your soul mate, but your soul mate deserves more._

_There’s a bottle of milk at your feet, and a heap of shit for Gallagher at home. A whole box full of shit Mandy put together just for today, and you know you’ll have to go home and face them eventually, face him eventually, but you don’t think you can bring yourself to do it anytime soon. You don’t want to do it at all, but avoiding your soul mate on the day he finds out he’s your soul mate is a pretty fucked up thing to do, even for you._

_So you get up and leave, and you think about the gift. Not the box full of movies and beer and junk food - the actual gift._

 

It’s practically a date. You and Ian, watching movies, alone. On fucking Valentine’s Day.

Of course it’s not the right time to tell Gallagher he’s your soul mate, that the two of your are destined to be together, that you’re the person he’s going to spend the rest of his life with, but ever since that last joint you shared, you can’t get the idea out of your head.

You don’t give a shit about Valentine’s Day - or any other fucking holiday, for that matter - but you know Ian has a thing for romance. He’d never admit it to you sober, but Mandy had teased him about it while you were all drunk on peach schnapps, and all Ian did was flush and flip her off.

You kind of like it. You don’t give a shit about the romance crap, but you like that he’s into it. You have the vague idea that if this soul mate thing works out between the two of you, you might even be willing to do the romance thing for him.

But the soul mate thing isn’t even a thing he knows about yet, so you go with what you’ve got. And what you’ve got is Mandy, pissed off about having no date, arranging a whole night for the three of you that included all the Valentine’s Day goodies, and none of the shitty romance movies.

She left an hour ago, though, to hook up with some she’s been texting, and it’s been you and Ian ever since, and if he even notices you inching closer every twenty minutes or so, he doesn’t say a damn thing about it.

So you don’t say anything, either. You deal with the expensive wine Mandy stole, the heart-shaped box of chocolate on the table in front of you, and pink balloons scattered all around the house. There’re flowers in a vase on the dinner table - ones Ian brought for Mandy that you’re definitely not jealous about - chocolate covered strawberries in in the fridge, and grapes and cheese on a fucking platter in front of you.

It’s all so fucking romantic that, if it weren’t for the movies you’ve been watching, it would make you sick.

Except that a tiny part of you maybe loves it. Not the food or the flowers or the _pink,_ but just … being alone with Ian. It happens occasionally, more and more often these days as you realise that you’re totally into him, and you take every opportunity you can. When Mandy decided to head out, you put genuine effort into convincing Gallagher to stick around and finish the movies with you.

Because you were halfway through _The Shawshank Redemption_ which is an epic movie. No one can deny that. And anyone who leaves halfway through is just stupid, _so you might as well sit your ass down and finish the movie, Gallagher._

Now it’s just you and Ian, alone, surrounded by romantic bullshit and watching incredibly unromantic movies.

You’re halfway through _Taken,_ and it’s getting close to midnight when you pull out your baggie, because you just can’t fucking take it anymore; he’s sitting so fucking close - _you’re_ sitting so fucking close - that your knees touch every other minute, you can smell him when he stretches, and his arm brushes yours with every deep breath he takes.

And you really need to do something with your hands, otherwise you’re going to end up touching what’s not yours to touch.

You open the bag and begin rolling another joint, the words falling out without your consent, a quiet mumble that fights with the sound coming from the television.

“You know, I still can’t believe Mandy never told you,” you begin, staring firmly at what your hands are doing, refusing to look into Ian’s eyes as you speak. “It’s not like Mandy to keep a fucking secret, you know? But I guess she proved me wrong - I mean, it’s not like I asked her not to say anything, but it kind of went without saying. Always does in this neighbourhood, I guess. Anyway, she never told you, but, uh, I kinda want to. Tell you, that is. And, you know, it’s no big deal, but I thought you should hear it from me - hear that, I just - uh, I’m kinda gay.”

It’s not even half of what you want to say, need to say, just can’t say. There’s also the fact that you’re kind of totally gay, desperately into him, and secretly his soul mate, but starting with admitting that you’re into dudes seems like a pretty good start. You swallow through the dryness in your throat, finish rolling the joint in your fingers, and chance a look at Gallagher.

He’s asleep. His mouth hangs open, face angled slightly towards you, breath coming out evenly. He looks good, peaceful, gorgeous.

He looks so fucking good it makes your heart hurt, but you wish - God, you wish so fucking much - he had heard you, and that’s what causes the hard lump in your throat.

 

_You turn to look at Ian, hoping, wishing, waiting for him to say something, anything - just a single word to hint at him having your name on his chest would be good enough._

_He says nothing._

_“Right,” you say. “Well, have a good one.”_

_Your hands shake as you close the door behind you, but it doesn’t compare to the thudding of your heart and the burning ache where his name resides. It fucking sucks, this whole soul mate bullshit. You knew, long ago, that you weren’t good enough for Ian Gallagher, but to have him not even say anything, to have him silently agree with you … it fucking hurts._

_You press the heels of your hands to your eyes and take a few deep breathes. It’s fine. You’ve been preparing yourself for this for months now._

_It’s fine._

 

You watch Ian train with an intensity that surprises you. It’s not like it’s a new thing you do - you’ve been keeping him company, yelling army chants and talking smack to get him going harder for a few months now - but it’s something you just can’t get used to. His skin shiny with sweat, the way his muscles flex with his push-ups and pull-up, the way he manoeuvres through the obstacles with no fucking problem at all …

It’s fucking amazing, and you always feel this swell of something pathetically close to pride when you get to watch, because that’s _your_ soul mate. That’s your soul mate doing the most incredible shit that you wouldn’t even bother to try.

He’s going hard today. Too hard. You flip your knife around and watch him push himself to the fucking brink, half worried he’s going to collapse, half worried he’s going to make himself sick, but you’re not sure what to do, what to say. You’re not ever sure it’s your place to say or do anything.

Sure, you guys are clearly friends, but it’s not like you talk about feelings and shit unless you’re high or drunk or both. You’ve got a six pack of beer in the bag sitting at the bottom of the roof extension, but you’re not sure that’s enough to make him talk … or to make you ask him to talk.

You jump down from the roof extension and shove your knife into where the roof access door is jammed shut.

“C’mon, man, let’s take a break.”

He scowls at you. “Let’s take a break? You’ve been sitting on your ass all afternoon. What the fuck are you taking a break from?”

And you can’t very well tell him that you need a break from watching his hot body run over the rooftop, or that you need a break from worrying about him overdoing himself, so you flip him off and grab your bag.

“Sit your ass down, Gallagher.”

He strips off his shirt to wipe at his sweaty face and you start your own encouraging chants in your head - _I will not kill him, I will not kiss him, I will not kill him, I will not kiss him._

Fucker.

You sit next to an empty barrel with your back against the wall, and Ian, who is clearly out to kill _you,_ sits between you and the barrel. There’s plenty of room on your other side, but he just plops himself down next to you, not quite touching, but still so fucking close.

You grunt and shove a beer at him because it’s all you can do, really, while he’s sitting next to you, shirtless. He takes the can and slowly opens it while you chug your own back, not stopping until it’s gone.

“So, what’s crawled up your ass this afternoon?” you ask between burps.

He shrugs, says nothing, and you roll your eyes.

“Dude, c’mon, you’ve been going way too fucking hard out there. What’s the deal?”

He shrugs again. “Just family shit.”

“You’re talkin’ to the king of family shit, Gallagher.”

“Yeah, but at least your family only consist of Mandy now. You don’t have to deal with anyone else’s shit these days.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think that’s a good thing?”

For the first time since sitting down, he meets your gaze. “Isn’t it?”

You open another beer and drown half of it before answering. “I dunno. My brothers weren’t too bad. Iggy was cool, you know? We got on real well until the old man kicked him out.”

“Why’d he kick him out?”

You smirk. “He knocked up a Spanish chick.”

“So?”

Your smirk turns into a full-on grin. “Exactly, man. So he knocked up a brown girl - who gives a fuck?”

Ian takes a sip of his beer. “Your dad was a prick.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Kinda glad he never knew about me,” he says. “Can’t you just imagine his reaction to finding out Mandy’s best friend is gay?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah, I can.”

Truth is, you’ve thought about that reaction a lot, but instead of Terry finding out about Ian, he finds out about you and it never ends well. Shit, it never ends with you alive.

Ian drinks a little more of his beer, then begins talking. “I hate my dad.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Yeah, but …” He breaks off, and when you look at him you don’t know what the fuck to do. He looks so fucking sad, so fucking angry and hurt and tired, and all you really want to do is touch him - hold his hand, wrap an arm around his shoulders, smooth your fingers over his cheek - anything to offer some kind of physical comfort.

And at that thought, you scull the rest of your beer.

“Monica’s back,” he says next, and his voice is hard, not so broken. “Turned up last night, out of the fucking blue, and Frank just welcomes her with open arms, you know? The usual. Shit, he always just waltzes into the house as though he’s fucking entitled to be there, but when he does it with Monica on his arm it’s so much fucking worse.”

You take another drink and say nothing; Ian needs to get whatever this is off his chest.

“She tried to take Liam once, you know? Fucking did take him, too, until she and her girlfriend got pulled over by Tony. Liam was terrified, man, so fucking scared, and Monica just …” He shakes his head slowly, and your fingers itch to reach for him. “Monica just acted like Monica, and took off again.”

You lick your lips, trying to find the right words. “Parents are the fucking worst, Ian, but you got Fiona and the others, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I got them.”

The _but it’s not the same_ goes without saying. He doesn’t say anymore for a while, so you stick with the silence, enjoying being in his presence.

“Sometimes I with my mom was dead,” he says.

Your force yourself frown, because you don’t know what you’ll do if you don’t. “That’s pretty fucked up.”

“Yeah. So is she.”

You look at him and wish to hell you could say or do something to make him feel better, but also hating yourself for wanting that. You didn’t _want_ a fucking soul mate soul mate.

You genuinely fucking ache for him.

You desperately want your soul mate.

 

_You’ve fucked up. You should have said something hours ago, weeks ago, months ago … you just should have said something._

_Except no. Ian’s a fucking romantic, and if you had told him before his seventeenth birthday who his soul mate was, he would have resented the hell out of you for it. He might have gotten over it, sure, but that’s not how you wanted to start whatever it is you might get the chance to start._

_Might._

_Probably won’t._

_He’s gone now, after making a drunken comment about things you can’t bring yourself to face, and you’re honestly not sure he’ll bother coming back._

_You wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t._

You don’t know when you fall in love with Ian, you just know it happens. One day you see him and you know you’re in love with him - head-over-heels, madly, completely, stupidly in love with him. And it’s nice.

It’s this warm, fuzzy feeling that flows through you constantly, encompassing your entire body whenever he’s around, and it takes everything you have to not do or say something dumb, to not smile like an idiot when he looks at you, to not reach out and touch his hand just because you want to.

And that part of it kind of sucks, but you can deal with it. You will deal with it. You fucking have to deal with it. You know when Ian’s birthday is, know you have a little over six months to wait, and you will fucking wait. Shit, you don’t even want to imagine his reaction if you told him everything now; you’d rather just wait and let him have his moment on his seventeenth birthday.

Ian passes out early on Mandy’s seventeenth birthday. Usually it’s Mandy who gets sleepy-drunk and passes out on the couch, but Gallagher drinks too much beer, smokes too much weed, and does four shots of rum that he’s never been able to handle, and passes out a little after one. And you sit there and you stare at him, way too much, so much too much that Mandy notices.

“Man, if I didn’t know better I’d think you got Ian’s name on your chest.”

You’re glad it’s dark, the only light coming from the TV, because her words cause you to flush as though it was Ian who caught you staring. You give her the finger.

“Fuck you. Who’d you get?”

“Dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

She grins. “Well, you asked _who_ I got, not what name. I don’t know the person I got.”

Well, isn’t she just super fucking lucky.

“What name then, smartass?”

Her grins slips so easily into a genuine smile that it surprises you. “Alex. No last name, but I can deal.”

She’s happy, you can tell. She has no clue who her soul mate is, but she has a name and she’s so fucking excited about it. You smile right back.

“I sell weed to a girl named Alex. Want me to introduce you?”

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

Her smile falls slightly. “What if it’s not her, though?”

You shrug and look back at Ian. “Then you keep looking?”

“Like you do?”

You glance at her, but her face is impassive and you can’t tell if she’s talking about you looking for your soul mate or you looking at your soul mate.

 

_You lie. You outright fucking lie to him, and it feels awful. You’re not even one-hundred percent sure why you’re doing it, but you tell him you don’t believe in this soul-mate bullshit, you act like you just don’t give a fuck, you pretend you never wanted any of this …_

_But then he turns to leave, and your heart feels like it’s on the verge of exploding._

_“Don’t.”_

_He turns back, and you can’t even tell what those emotions running over his face are, not sure you ever want to know._

_“Don’t what?”_

_You know what you want to say - don’t go, don’t leave, don’t make me say the things I can’t bring myself to say, please just fucking stay here with me - but the more you look at him, at the amazing guy the universe decided you should be with, the more you hold onto your words._

_He deserves better._

_So you say nothing._

 

You’re sitting on the front porch, lighting up a smoke, when a shiny BMW pulls up in front of the house. You smirk, half hoping whoever’s inside will get out and ask for directions, just so you can tell him where to shove it.

Your heart rate speeds right up when Ian climbs out, but your stomach drops when an older guy with a disgusting fucking smirk on his face climbs out of the driver’s seat and walks around to him. To Ian. To your soul mate. But you watch intently, smoke forgotten, as the old guy takes a quick look around then leans down to press his mouth to Ian’s.

You want to be sick. Your stomach rolls at the sight of another person kissing Ian, but all you can do is look away, take a long drag of your cigarette, pretend you just don’t give a flying fuck when Ian kisses the guy back, threads fingers through his hair, presses his body closer …

Fuck. It fucking hurts how bad you are at _not_ looking at Ian.

The guy leaves and Ian stands there and fucking waves him off. You scowl at them both, and don’t bother to hide it when Ian walks towards you.

“Hey,” he says, and takes a seat next to you. He’s still in his fucking army gear, and it should be illegal, goddamn it.

“That your grandpa?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Na, just a guy I’ve been seeing.”

“A guy you’ve been seeing, right. He, uh, take you out on romantic dates? With candles and shit? A little guy playing the violin just for you?”

“Na, we mostly just fuck.”

You look at him and he stares right back, and you want to tell him to stop, to stop fucking around with another guy, to only fuck around with you, but you can’t. He doesn’t turn seventeen for another two months, so you have fucking right to say anything.

So you say nothing. You turn away, take a hit of your smoke, and wish you had some weed.

“Aced all my exams last week,” he says, leaning back against the stairs behind him. You know he’s talking about his ROTC, but the truth is, you don’t like to really think about it. You don’t like to think about a time when he’ll be gone, doing his thing, and you’ll still be here, selling dope to high school kids.

“Nice,” you mutter, glancing sideways at him, trying not to check him out. But it’s tough; he looks fucking hot in his training pants and white tank top. “Professor Geezer help you out with that?”

“He helps me study. He’s a doctor, you know. Kinda smart.”

Unlike you, who didn’t finish high school. “Guess he’d have to be pretty smart to be a doctor.”

“Yep.”

“Pretty stupid to fuck underage dudes, though.”

Ian laughs. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

There’s an honest-to-God burning behind your eyes that you can’t fucking deal with, so you stand and offer him some weed. He follows you inside and throws his long body onto the couch. You can hear Mandy in the shower, and, not for the first time, a part of you wonders if you should just say it. Just tell him.

You don’t. You’re not sure you ever will.

Ian’s a good guy - that’s something you’ve known since before you got his name on your chest - and he deserves a good guy in return. A smart guy who can fucking teach him things and provide for him.

Even if you are his soul mate.

Unless you being his soul mate was just some big fucking joke the world’s played on you. Maybe you’re one of those people whose soul mate has another person’s name on them, and not yours. Sounds about right. It would be just your fucking luck.

You throw the bag of pre-rolled joints on the table and sit next to him. You want to get high, but you want … something else, too. You don’t even fucking know what. You lick your lips and pull out a cigarette instead.

“Why do you even fool around with that old guy anyway?” The words are out before you really think them through.

“What do you care?” Ian asks, and if only he fucking knew.

“Don’t.” And you’re not sure you’ve ever told a bigger lie in your life. “Just can’t figure out why you’d fuck around with someone who needs little blue pills to get it up.”

“He’s nice.”

“Sure. Real nice. Especially the _creeping on underage dudes_ thing,” you say, and you can’t keep even an ounce of the bitterness out of your voice, but Ian goes about standing up for the old guy anyway.

“He’s not that bad. Helps me with my advanced classes, buys me stuff …”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Buys you stuff?”

“Yeah! He got me this really cool GPS until I can wear on my wrist. I mean, we’re supposed to learn that stuff from maps and shit, but it’s still really cool. Really helpful.”

Ian’s whole fucking face lights up as he speaks, and the sheer amount of jealousy that floods through you causes you change the subject to something that hurts only a little less.

“Right. The army. You actually serious about that shit?”

And you won’t deny that you’ve thought about it, a lot, and you can’t fucking stand it. It’s not just the idea of Ian leaving you to do something important, either, it’s Ian leaving and possibly not coming back, and maybe you were wrong, maybe that definitely hurts more than him fooling around with someone else.

Either way, you won’t look at him as he replies.

“Yeah, man. Can’t let Lip be the only Gallagher to make something out of himself, right?”

You nod half-heartedly, but he doesn’t seem to realise the impact his words have on you. As soon as you hear the shower turn off, you leave him alone and shut yourself in your room.

 

_You hurt. You actually fucking hurt, everywhere, and there’s nothing you can do about it, not now, not ever. Ian’s gone. Actually fucking gone this time, because you couldn’t give him what he wanted, what he needed … anything. You couldn’t give him anything, and you’re so fucking fucked up._

_You storm into the bathroom, intent on just not being in your room, but not willing to face Mandy yet. And you pace. It’s a small room, but you pace and pace, and you fucking tremble with rage and pain and fucking heartache, all directed at yourself. And when you can’t take it anymore, when you just want to put your fucking fist through the fucking mirror, you turn and put your fist through the mirror._

“Ian’s birthday is next week,” Mandy says, and, just like that, you’re drawn right back in.

Not that you were ever out. You considered pulling back a couple of weeks after talking to him about the old guy and the army, but the half-assed thought was gone before it was fully developed. Even if you had you decided to go ahead with that plan, the idea of it is so unrealistic when you hate going a day without seeing the guy.

But you have thought about his birthday, thought about going out of town for a day or two, thought about doing whatever it takes to avoid him that day. But the moment Mandy brings it up, you’re there, with Ian, wherever the fuck he is.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” She pauses, and you don’t miss the look she gives you. “I wanna get him something nice, but I can’t decide.”

You shrug. “You could get him a fucking hat and he’d love it.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s because I’m his best friend and he loves me. I know he’ll love anything I get him, but it’s a special birthday, you know? It has to be something nice.”

“Okay.”

She smiles. “Give me a ride to the mall?”

“Fuck off.”

“Please? I’ll buy lunch.”

That’s the only reason you agree. It’s not because you want to see what Mandy plans on getting Ian, and it’s definitely not because you plan on getting him something, too. Well, maybe you do want to see what Mandy will get him, but as far as you’re concerned, your absence on his birthday will be gift enough from you.

Mandy drags you inside the mall, and straight to whatever fucking shop you’re in.

“Okay, here’s what I’ve narrowed it down to,” she says, holding three items in front of you. “The chain, the Zippo, or the watch?”

“The Zippo,” you say automatically, feeling foolishly jealous at the idea of Mandy buying Ian jewellery.

She grins. “I thought so, too!”

“Yeah …” You clear your throat. “I dunno, maybe you could get it engraved or something.”

“That’s a nice idea, Mick.”

You shrug, and before you know it you’re reaching for your wallet and handing Mandy fifty bucks. She stares at you, wide-eyed, and you sneer at her.

“Don’t give me that look. You think I don’t know how little you make waiting on tables?”

“Yeah, but -”

“But nothing. Go and pay for the fucking gift. I’ll be in the car.”

You think about the engraving comment way too much, and three days later, after dropping Mandy off at the library - where she just so happens to be meeting Ian - you put the car into park, take out your phone, and use the library’s free wifi.

It’s a simple enough search, because there’s really only one subject you get engraved on someone’s seventeenth birthday present, and that’s soul mate. Always fucking soul mates.

You go through a couple of pages, skimming over the long quotes, barely looking at who wrote them, pretty fucking sure you’re being really fucking stupid, until …

Your entire mouth goes dry at the words, and you stare at them, unable to look away, muttering them to yourself over and over again until your heart rate slows and your body simply fills with that same warmth you associate with being in love with Ian.

_Whatever our souls are made of,  
His and mine are the same._

_“You’re so fucking smart, Mick,” Ian says, face close enough for his hot breath to wash over your skin. “You’re smart and you’re funny and you’re such a dork sometimes. You’re the only person I trust Mandy with, you’re fucking amazing with numbers, and you make the best tacos around.”_

_His words are everything you need to make you feel soft and gooey inside, and you don’t even care how pathetic soft and gooey is. All you care is Ian’s words, the way he cleans your busted knuckles, his fingers brushing over his name on your skin. You don’t care about having just come in your jeans like a thirteen-year-old kid; all you care about it Ian._

_“Yeah, Mick, I’m cool with it,” he says, and then he quotes the fucking lighter, and your heart bursts with so many good things you’re just not used to feeling._

_So you kiss him. You kiss him and you kiss him, and it quickly becomes your favourite thing to do - licking into his mouth, biting at his lip, making him fucking moan for you. Everything about kissing Ian is fan-fucking-tastic, and you’re ready to go again within minutes._

_You tell him that, tell him how badly you want him to fuck you, need him to fuck you, and he just groans into your mouth and starts undressing you. Then you’re naked and in the shower, and Ian’s licking into your ass, sucking and slurping at you like he’s wanted to do it forever, slipping a finger in alongside his tongue and worming a hand between you and the shower wall to reach for your dick._

_You come again before he gets his dick in your ass, but that doesn’t stop you from pushing back against him when he finally enters you._

_You don’t entirely believe the things he’s said to you. Doubting anything good about yourself is too deeply fixed into you that you can’t help yourself, can’t help but doubt Ian. But later, when he’s curled up in your bed, holding you close and nuzzling your cheek and whispering sweet fucking nothings, ignoring your forced grumbles about it all, you think he believes what he’s saying, and that’s enough._

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Ella](http://hubrisandwax.tumblr.com/) for all of her amazing help.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://wehangout.tumblr.com/) :)


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